Eredar's Redemption
by Zhanael
Summary: Former Eredar shadow-priestess Saciash finds herself sucked into a new world when a mission to destroy a Legion teleporter goes awry.  There, she meets new friends...and finds that she has a new mission.  Rating subject to change with upcoming content.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note: So! I promised you a fanfictionization of the RP that spawned my Home Sector Pack of _From the Desk_ and _Hunter Red_—here it is! Yes, it's a crossover with my other obsession, World of Warcraft, but only in the strictest sense. Except for the prologue and maybe a few scenes, it'll be set entirely in the L4D/2 universe. The RP was mainly a sort of, "What would happen if so-and-so was thrown into this world?" And so here we have it. I hope you enjoy it!_

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**Prologue**

Violet lightning flashed constantly in the swirling storm clouds above, illuminating the stony landscape below. It never stopped storming here in the aptly named Netherstorm; when the planet called Draenor shattered, the Twisting Nether bled into the physical plane, rendering the place all but uninhabitable. The only real havens in the chaotic mage-storms were the bio-domes established by the entrepreneurial Consortium ethereals, and the goblin outpost of Area 52. But nowhere was entirely safe; magic was unstable in this collection of floating islands of rocks, made even more so by the series of "mana-forges" run by the fel-tainted Blood Elves. Even the demons of the Burning Legion had a foothold here; they ran forge-camps to construct the fearful Fel Reavers, and invasion points to bolster their forces in the Outlands.

_And I'm supposed to get rid of one of them all by myself,_ Saciash thought sourly. _How exciting._

The ebon-skinned Eredar, a creature many compared to goats for their horns and legs, held tight to the reins and adjusted her weight as her gryphon banked to port, her silvery eyes scanning the ground hundreds of feet below. Everything, from the land to the air itself, was tinted purple here, the color of pure arcane magic. The sickly yellow-green and stark black of the demons' construction clashed with that color, so it wasn't hard for Saciash to pick out what she was looking for—the massive teleporter through which the Legion brought their forces from the Twisting Nether. Her target was situated on the edge of one of the massive floating islands of stone; the rest of the camp surrounded it, making it almost impossible to infiltrate…from the ground.

Saciash checked her gear. She was travelling light; all she had with her were a few pouches attached to her black satin belt. One contained her spell components—several feathers, as well as the small candles that the Draenei race favored—while another contained a day's ration of food. A flask hung from beneath the food pouch, containing at least two days' worth of purified water from the springs of Draenor. But most important—for this mission, at least—was the pair of bombs supplied to her by the goblins, at the behest of her Aldor commanders, which were hooked to her belt as well.

That this was a suicide mission was glaringly obvious to her. She could get in alive just fine; her levitation spell would see her safely to the ground, and even if that failed, she had other ways of saving herself. But getting out again would be next to impossible; the demons would fall on her like a swarm, and they wouldn't dare leave her alive. She was a traitor to the Legion, a betrayer. She had deserted them, and turned to the Light to rid herself of the fel.

_But I know their secrets. I know how they work. And I know how to kill them. _Saciash smirked to herself. _If I'd been one of the lesser demons like a _sayaadi _succubus, they wouldn't care so much. But I am Eredar, and Father and dear sister Zephidrae were both quite…influential. If they ever catch me, they can't let me go._

The Aldor, the faction of Draenei based in the city of Shattrath in the Outlands, knew this as they knew every time they sent her on such a mission. This was the fifth such task Saciash had been given, and it rankled. She knew the Draenei were trying to be rid of her. The blessing of the Naaru, those beings of pure Light, and of the Prophet Velen, the leader and savior of the Draenei race, wasn't enough for those who commanded in the Aldor. That she had been mated to a Vindicator wasn't enough, either. As long as she commanded the Shadow, fel-tainted or not, they would distrust her. To them, she was still a demon, still _man'ari_, and they were determined to be rid of her before she could betray them, too. So they sent her on missions like this one, where if she turned, she could be contained—or better yet, where she would likely be killed by that of which she was once a part.

With each supposedly impossible mission she was given, Saciash was tempted to desert. She was tempted to fly away and never look back. But she never did, and this time would be no different. She always stayed, always succeeded, because that was what she really wanted. Partly, she wanted to spite the naysayers, those who distrusted her and wanted to see her dead. But mostly, she wanted to fight the fel, to fight in the name of the Light, in the name of her beloved—and how could she do that if she were dead?

As with those other missions, Saciash had a plan for this one. The bombs didn't require much arming; she merely had to plant them on opposite sides of the teleporter. From there, the fel-energy of the portal spells would trigger the magical explosion that would destroy the structure and the spells. She had only half a minute to get away once they were planted—just enough to get out of the blast radius. She would be jumping down into the camp from above; the bombs themselves were coated with the super-sticky tar that the goblins had refined from the native goop from Azeroth's Un'goro Crater, so she could just throw them and they would stick to the sides of the teleporter. From there, she would hit the ground running, and hopefully be halfway through the camp before the demons realized they were under attack.

_Such a high hope._

She couldn't count on her gryphon returning for her; he had been lent to her from the Aldor, and likely instructed to return to his aerie once she was off his back. She certainly had no backup. But her enemies would underestimate her. They'd rightly assume her specialty was magic—but she certainly had more than that. She was small for an Eredar at almost eight feet, and her body was slim and lithe. Even if they locked down her magic, she could still kill; the deadliest weapon she possessed was, in fact, her tail.

When she was young, she had noticed that her tail almost resembled a whip; it was thicker at the base, but it tapered to a thin length that surpassed many others'. So she decided to use it to her advantage, as an extra weapon. She had one of her minions create a blade which resembled a spear-point; it fit over her tailtip, and was bound tight with Shadow-infused leather. With it, she taught herself how to fight with it in melee combat, without or alongside other weapons. Usually, she struck like a scorpion, with the blade above her head or shoulder. She was never without it, not even while sleeping.

Saciash flicked that deadly appendage, the blade glinting in the dim light afforded to the Netherstorm between flashes of arcane lightning, and made one final check of her gear. Finally, she decided, it was time. She pulled out a feather, and held it between two fingers; the other flicked the reins, directing the gryphon downwards. She slipped her hooves from the stirrups, and waited until there was just enough height. She gave the gryphon a small touch of her mind, conveying to him her gratitude for his help before throwing herself from the saddle.

As she fell, Saciash spoke a harsh word in Old Eredun, the language the Eredar, her own race, and the Draenei once shared when they were one people. As she did, she tossed the feather. But it didn't fall; instead, it seemed to disintegrate, swirling around her. Her momentum was slowed; she felt like she was drifting on air. Satisfied that her levitate spell held, she took hold of both of the bombs, pulling them from her belt. She fell until she was the proper distance, and flung first one, then the other at the teleporter. She hit her marks; the bombs clung to the sides and started absorbing the fel-energy that would serve as their trigger.

As soon as her hooves touched the ground, Saciash started to run as fast as she could. The demons surrounding her were clearly confused—until one of the demonic six-armed priestesses called _shivan_ recognized her and called for the chase, just as Saciash knew would happen. With that call, it seemed the whole camp was after her. That was fine with her; so long as they ignored the bombs, her mission would be a success. She dodged the blade of a fel-steel axe swung at her by one of the demons, a member of the Wrathguard and a cousin species to her own, and shifted her direction, away from the blast radius.

After thirty seconds, just as the goblin had said, the bombs exploded, rocking the camp and sending fel-steel shrapnel flying. Saciash and many of her pursuers were flattened by the force of the explosion; several demons were dead from the shards of metal protruding from their bodies. The rest of them, even those who had been chasing her, were fleeing. She coughed the violet-tinted dust from her nose and mouth, and pulled herself back onto her hooves. She wasn't sure why they were running away and not trying to kill her, but she figured that she'd best take advantage of that break and escape the camp before they decided that she was the bigger threat.

But Saciash found after a few moments that despite her best efforts to move, she wasn't gaining any ground. In fact, though her hoofprints in the dirt showed clearly that she was trying to run, they were also leading _backwards_. She bared her teeth and hissed through them, looking back the way she'd come, but there was nothing there that she could see—no demon, at least, was hindering her escape. There were only the remnants of the teleporter behind her; all the demons were either dead or fled.

_Wait. The teleporter!_ Her silver eyes narrowed and she turned around. Where the teleporter had been, there was now a swirling mass of glowing energy. That had been the portal, she was sure. She was still moving, being pulled by some invisible force—a force that was, apparently, emanating from the energy. _The bombs were supposed to destroy the portal spell the teleporter was using, too. They must have failed, and now the spell's reversed itself—and pulling in everything loose in the blast radius!_

There was nothing she could do about it, Saciash realized. This sort of magic was entirely beyond her; spellweaver she may have been, but she'd never learned to command the fel-arcane. She was being inexorably pulled into some chaotic rift, one that she herself had made with those bombs, and she couldn't save herself. No one else was around to rescue her, either, even if they were so inclined. She was alone.

Others in her position might have panicked, but it only made Saciash angry. She didn't try to fight against the wild magic that was drawing her in; she would exhaust herself in vain if she did. So she stood, limp, letting herself be dragged across what was left of the camp. _The Draenei will get their wish after all,_ she thought bitterly as she watched the rift grow closer. _I'll finally die. I'll no longer be a danger to them—as if I ever was!_

She began to pick up speed as she got closer. Within moments, she was moving as fast as if she were running. The pull started to become painful, until it felt as though she were being tugged in a hundred different directions. She refused to scream, even though the pain threatened to overwhelm her. Instead, she lowered herself to the ground, facing the rift, and when she was within a meter of it, she leapt to what she saw as certain death.

There was a flash. Her body was being simultaneously crushed and thrown about as though she'd been caught in a cyclone. She didn't want to scream, but she did anyway—the pain was too great. But no sound came. She couldn't see anything; there was only darkness. She tried to reach out with her mind, to try to call for help, but there was nothing around her. She couldn't move.

_This is it. I'm going to die here. I'm going to die here, alone, without finding Lyrelle, without saying farewell to Sharys—holy Naaru, sweet O'ros, please, help me—_

There was another flash. The pain was gone, replaced with the sweet relief that now flooded her. But she realized she was falling, and when she looked up, she could see a dark night sky, and a single moon hidden behind a cloud. When she looked down, she found she wouldn't have enough time to activate a levitation spell. Instead, she braced for impact with the stone that was quickly rushing up to meet her.

_It smells terrible here,_ she thought before she hit. Stars exploded behind her eyes and so did pain.

And then there was nothing but darkness.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Zoey slammed home the clips in her twin pistols and held them at the ready. Fear was her constant companion, but it was especially close now, pounding through her veins and fueling the adrenaline. She was hidden in a broom closet of an abandoned Starbucks, alone—a quick break for a rest before she made her way toward the nearest safehouse. Her friends were…somewhere. She wasn't sure where; they'd been separated from each other for a few hours now by a mob of zombies and a downed power line. But their agreement, shouted at each other over the howls of the horde, was to meet at the safehouse.

There was no real plan if someone didn't show up, however. But Zoey didn't want to think about that.

_Just live,_ she thought to herself. _Just live, and worry about it when you get there._

She listened quietly, and could hear the grunting and moaning of the idle Infected outside. They wouldn't stay idle when she left her hiding place, she knew. They'd notice her right away, and come after her like the rabid animals they'd become. But that was just a part of this new, zombie-filled life. Just a part of the end of the world.

Taking a deep breath, Zoey braced herself and kicked open the door. As she'd thought, the nearby Infected took notice, and rushed at her with snarls and wordless shouts. The former college student opened fire, picking her shots carefully; her ammo was limited, and she had to make it last at least long enough to get to her goal. Not for the first time, she sent thanks to her father for taking her to the gun range (and then forced down the grief that always followed at the thought of him); if it hadn't been for him, she doubted she would have lasted long enough to even meet Francis, Louis and Bill.

Slowly, Zoey made her way out of the empty coffee shop and down the silent street. Her teeth were gritted with concentration; the only thought in her head now was survival. She stuck to the shadows and kept her flashlight off; she could see well enough, and the light attracted unwanted attention. She was as silent as she could possibly be, tip-toeing along the sidewalk with her back against the wall. Her head was constantly moving, scanning her surroundings continuously so she didn't get taken by surprise.

But a deep, angry growl made her freeze in place. A fresh wave of fear washed through her. That noise could only come from the worst possible kind of Infected she could have run into alone. It belonged to that massive, hulking gorilla of a zombie called a Tank—and to make the situation worse, it sounded close. She pressed herself close against the wall, both pistols raised. The Tank grunted and growled again, and she started to feel the ground shaking beneath her feet. She swallowed hard, trying to suppress the fear that had suddenly caught in her throat.

Then the Tank came around the corner. It locked eyes with her.

And then it charged with a roar.

* * *

Saciash groaned softly as she came to consciousness. She brought up a hand to rest over her closed eyes, shielding them from the light that blared down on her even through her eyelids. Her tail twitched, scraping her tailblade against the stone beneath her. With that sound, she was conscious of her whole head pounding in time with her heartbeat. She growled, and then took a deep breath, beginning to work her way through a set of relaxation exercises. As she forced her muscles to loosen and unclench, the pain lessened, until she could finally take inventory of any injuries without that pain getting in the way.

First, her head. The ache lessened as the tension in her muscles leaked out, and she could keep her thoughts together. If she'd had trouble focusing, she would have determined that she had a concussion—but there was no sign of that, only a large knot on the back of her head, between her horns. Not for the first time, Saciash was grateful for the Eredar race's thick skulls. With that verdict, she turned her attention to her neck and spine, twisting both and sitting up. She could feel everything, she could move everything, and so there was likely only some bruising. Even her tail was uninjured; she gave it a few experimental flicks, and there was no crackling or snapping.

Somehow, miraculously, she had survived the fall. Her only injuries were deep bruises, scrapes, and perhaps a cut or two. Saciash silently gave thanks to the Light, though she was unsure if she would be heard.

_Now to figure out where I've been tossed to,_ she thought.

Cracking open her eyes slowly, to allow them to adjust to the light, she took in another deep breath. This time, she was aware of the stench that filled her nose. It smelled of death, and it smelled of decay. Strangely, the putrid odor wasn't unlike that of any other battlefield…but where was the battle?

When she could keep her eyes open without squinting, she glanced around. The light that had been so bright in her eyes emanated from a rectangular lantern set in the wall above an open doorway. It bathed everything it touched in sulfuric-yellow, but it was as bright as day. Yet there was no heat in that light, and no residual or even blatant magical aura. It was her first clue that this was not a world like any she'd seen.

After all, what world didn't use magic in some form or another?

After a few more minutes of examining her surroundings, Saciash realized that nothing was familiar here. Rather, _concepts_ were familiar, such as buildings, lanterns, and even waste bins, but their structure and compositions were utterly alien. The stone beneath her, for instance, was quite obviously stone—but though it was just as obviously sedimentary, it was almost unnaturally smooth (except for where she'd cracked it on impact, leaving a tiny spider web of hairline fractures spreading from the dent shaped like her body). The brick of the buildings on either side of her was of a different material than the smooth stone, but equally unfamiliar in its composition.

What made it worse was that there wasn't a hint of magic anywhere. Saciash could sense the leylines of power in the earth beneath her, much as there were in the worlds with which she was familiar. But these were untouched, and ran wild without a hint of mortal guidance—as was common on worlds whose inhabitants used magic regularly. There was no magic in use here, and it unnerved her.

A bellowing roar caught her attention. It was followed soon after by a high-pitched scream that could only come from a woman's voice. A streak of pink flew by the mouth of the alley in which Saciash had landed, and the ground beneath her hooves started to shake. Growling softly, the Eredar dropped into a battle-stance, her tail raised above her head like a scorpion. A creature that could only be described as a wall of muscle stomped past, in pursuit of whatever had flown past earlier.

Saciash reached out to touch the monster's mind with her own, but she immediately reeled back, snarling reflexively. There was nothing there but rage and bloodlust; not even the fel-orcs of the Outlands were this far gone! Its target was a human female—the source of the scream she'd heard—and not even a fraction of its size. The girl was no match for it.

_But I am. Time to see how effective I am here._

The Eredar dashed out onto the street, instinctively reaching for one of the magic-flows. She drew a line of power into herself, and barked out the word for "pain" in Old Eredun. The magic attached itself to that word, and immediately the massive thing stopped in its tracks, flailing its tree trunk arms in a vain attempt to dislodge the millions upon millions of needles that it felt piercing its flesh. It roared its fury, and the girl (smartly) took the opportunity to hide in the very alley Saciash had come from.

Saciash didn't give the thing time to recover. She wove the power she'd drawn into a great mental blast that she directed at the hulk's shrunken brain. It stumbled forward, most of its brain shut down. But it stood straight, turned, and locked eyes on her; it seemed that the only function in its brain that it required was its ability to move. Then it punched its meaty hands into the stone at its feet and pulled up a giant chunk of it, heaving it in her direction. She threw herself to the pavement, letting the debris fly over her head.

When she got back onto her hooves again, the thing was barreling toward her. She danced aside as it swung a fist at her, and lashed out with her tailblade. She scored, but barely; she left only a scratch at its elbow, and it didn't even feel the pain. Growling softly, she drew up another line of power, reaching with her mind into the creature's again. This time, she enveloped it, driving the power into it like a lance, flaying it mercilessly. This time, when the thing fell to its knees, it stayed down. Blood streamed from its ears and eyes. Its brain had hemorrhaged, and not even a body that size could go on without something to control it.

Saciash flicked her tail, and moved it around to wipe the blood from the blade on the creature's bicep. Turning, she saw the girl peeking out from the alley and staring fearfully at her. She was holding a pair of glistening black items in either hand, and both were pointed at the Eredar. The way she clutched them suggested that she thought her life depended on them—and if that giant thing was any indication, perhaps it did. So Saciash assumed they were weapons, and lifted empty hands to indicate that she was unarmed; she kept her tail lifted enough that her tailblade was hidden behind her back.

"Are you all right, Miss?" the Eredar spoke aloud. She chose to speak in Common, the language all races on Azeroth used to communicate, in the hopes that the girl would understand her. It gave her a hint of an accent, but that couldn't be helped; at least her enunciation was crystal clear.

By sheer luck, the girl seemed to understand. Her eyes widened, and she took a step back into the shadows. "Y-you spoke. You can talk." Fear was thick in her voice, making it tremble.

"I did. I can." Saciash smiled slightly. "My name is Saciash."

"God…what _are_ you? How can you talk? You're not even human!"

Saciash didn't frown, but she did raise an eyebrow thoughtfully. "No, I'm not human. I am Eredar, and I make my home in the world of Azeroth. I am a stranger to this place, you see, brought here by forces outside my control."

"So…you're an alien?" The girl's eyes narrowed slightly, but she stepped back into the light again. "I guess you _do_ look like one…"

The Eredar smirked. "I suppose you can call me an alien, yes. I don't mean you or your world any harm, however. I came here by accident, that's all."

Finally, the girl lowered her strange weapons, and Saciash lowered her arms. "How can you speak English, then? I mean, I didn't think aliens could talk like humans."

"A near-impossible coincidence," Saciash answered. "Now, I don't suppose you can tell me where I am?"

"This is Earth you're on, but we're sort of occupied by a zombie apocalypse." The human gestured to the massive creature. "At first they were all the brain-dead-until-you-get-their-attention type, but then they started mutating, and we got things like that Tank you killed." She hesitated and blanched. "…alone. Without taking a hit. God, what the hell _are_ you?"

"As I said, I am Eredar. I use magic to call on the essences of Light and Shadow." Saciash was beginning to get a little annoyed at the human's fear, but she forced the feeling back down again. Not only was this girl her _only_ source of information, she also didn't deserve her wrath. She had to remind herself that sort of fear was that of the unknown—_not_ because of any sort of prejudice.

The girl shook her head, looking immensely incredulous. "If I hadn't seen it for myself, I'd say you were insane. God. First zombies, now aliens. It's like all those old movies are coming true…" She ran a hand through her hair, dislodging some of it from the tight tail. "I'm Zoey. Thanks for saving me from that Tank."

Saciash relaxed when Zoey gave her name, and smiled again. "It was my pleasure, Zoey. Good to meet you." She, too, looked to the "Tank" as Zoey called it, prodding the large corpse with her tailblade. "You say you're infested with zombies?"

"Yeah." Zoey finally came forward, keeping her eyes on the Tank as though she suspected it of rising again if she looked away. "They're not actually dead, though. It's from some kind of virus that spreads like wildfire to anyone who isn't immune for whatever reason. It turns everyone it infects into what we call zombies. They're, like, brain-dead, just wandering around, laying down where they stand, or leaning against the wall, or…whatever. But when you get their attention, nothing short of death will stop them."

"A disease?" Saciash's eyebrow rose at that. Why hadn't they cured it by now? But then she remembered the untouched leylines, and she understood. "I see. You were unable to combat it, and now it's out of control. And they've mutated, you said?"

Zoey nodded. "This Tank's just one of the different kinds of mutations out there—but it's the biggest and strongest. There're at least eight different types we've counted, including this one. They're not like the regular zombies, though; they look different and they're smarter. They don't get distracted by bright light or loud sounds."

"I'll keep that in mind." Saciash looked around once more, as though something might suddenly seem familiar this time around. Nothing did, of course. "Considering those circumstances, however, I believe we should find someplace safer than standing in the middle of what I assume to be a street."

"Good idea," Zoey agreed, lifting her two weapons again. "I was trying to find my way to the nearest safehouse where three other guys are hopefully waiting for me. I'm probably gonna need your help to get there—especially if there's another Tank around."

The Eredar smiled, nodding as she lifted her tail again. "I'll be more than happy to provide the service of guardian. Lead the way." With a final nod, Zoey took off, and Saciash followed after her.

_There's one advantage to this place,_ she thought as she ran. _No more suicide missions. And didn't I always say I wanted to go to Northrend to help fight the Scourge? What is the Scourge if not a horde of zombies? I'm getting my wish, so to speak._

_ Now the question is…how do I get back?_

Saciash didn't have an answer.

* * *

Zoey was silent for most of the journey. For the most part, she didn't want to attract the attention of the nearby zombies as she and Saciash crept past (the Eredar was amazingly quiet with those cloven hooves). But partially it was because she didn't know what to say. Saciash was an _alien_, after all, and certainly fit the part. She was _intimidating_, more so than the zombies were. At least the Infected were human, once; Saciash never was, so far as Zoey knew.

Granted, the Eredar was at least human_oid_. She walked on two legs; she had a slender torso, and a narrow, pointed face surrounded by silky black hair. But she had to be at least eight feet tall, and her skin was completely black. Her eyes were pupilless silver, backwards-curving horns grew from either side of her head, she had a tail, and her legs were like a goat's, only hairless. And were those small _tentacles_ dangling down her shoulders from behind her pointed ears?

_If she'd been human once, you'd never know it now_, Zoey decided. _At least she's on our side. I think._

So distracted by her thoughts was she that Zoey didn't hear the wheezing from above until it was too late. The Smoker's tongue whipped around her, constricting her arms and around her throat, cutting off her air supply. She choked, wriggling her body to try to dislodge the appendage, but to no avail. She couldn't free her arms to try to get off a shot at her attacker. She couldn't even cry out to Saciash for help.

As it turned out, she didn't need to. She saw Saciash lift her tail and leap upward, lashing out with the blade. The tongue that trapped Zoey was severed, and she fell to the pavement, coughing. Saciash said something to her, but she couldn't hear it. She did, however, _see_ what the alien woman did next.

She _dissolved into mist_.

It wasn't a gradual dissolution, either. One moment, Saciash was solid, and the next, she had exploded into a black fog. That fog had a mind of its own—the alien's—and flowed up the side of the building that the Smoker had been standing on, out of Zoey's sight. She could only stare after her in shock.

_I didn't see that. I really didn't see that. I must be hallucinating. She can't turn into fog, right?_

But Zoey heard the Smoker's death-wheeze, saw the sickly green spore-cloud rising into the air. Then part of that smoke seemed to turn black and detach itself, floating back down to ground level. There, it reformed into Saciash, and Zoey could just stare in utter disbelief—and not a little fear.

This thing was not human, could never have been human. This was an alien, pure and simple. It was almost too much for Zoey's brain to handle. Panic threatened to overtake her, growing stronger each moment Saciash stared at her. But then the alien turned away, though Zoey could have sworn she looked a little hurt.

"Are you all right?" the alien said, her voice perhaps a hint colder than it had been before.

Zoey got back onto her feet, managing not to stumble. "Y-yeah…yeah, I'm fine." She looked away from Saciash and glanced down the street. She hesitated for a few moments before speaking again. "Thanks for saving me."

"Of course. What was that one called?"

"Smoker. That was a Smoker." Zoey determined that she was recovered enough to continue, and gripped her pistols, raising them slightly in front of her, at the ready. "Come on. Let's find that safehouse." She didn't wait for an answer. She just started moving again, letting the Eredar follow behind.

Saciash was a formidable ally; Zoey knew that much for certain. She just hoped that she'd never have to count her as an enemy. The zombies were bad enough, after all.

_I can't wait to hear what the guys have to say about her…_


End file.
